


The Milky Leaf Water Affair

by Mungo_of_Maundery



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Gen, Humor, Napoleon Hates Tea, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 05:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10609950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mungo_of_Maundery/pseuds/Mungo_of_Maundery
Summary: Napoleon faces his hardest mission yet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not to be taken too seriously :P

Napoleon honked the horn of the car impatiently as Illya paused in the doorway of the tailor’s shop to say something to del Floria.

“Alright, alright,” Illya said, balancing one of the two coffees he was holding on the bonnet of the car as he opened the door with the other hand. He handed one to Napoleon as he sat down in the passenger seat and closed the door behind him. Napoleon grinned and took it.

“So. What’s the story?” Napoleon asked, setting off down the road. He was only partially briefed on this assignment, having been pulled in at the last minute when his previous mission had finished a day earlier than expected. He’d made it to del Floria’s straight from the airport. He’d been rather hoping to spend today as a day off, but Illya had assured him over the communicator that this would be an easy task, almost like a holiday after some of the things they’d been subjected to over the past few weeks. Napoleon had definitely been pleased to hear that.

All he knew was that there was an old lady who lived not far away, who’d long been sitting on a selection of very early UNCLE files which were now needed for records purposes. It seemed odd to send Illya and Napoleon to deal with something this routine – it seemed to Napoleon like the kind of job that could be done easily by any of the more minor operatives in Section 3 or 4 – but then maybe he was just annoyed at having his unexpected day off taken away just minutes after it had been presented to him. But apparently most everyone else was already busy and Waverly had hinted to Illya that this old lady was not to be reckoned with.

“What’s she going to do?” Napoleon had joked over the communicator. “Is she in the pay of THRUSH, or is she going to poison us with lavender water?”

Illya’s smirk was audible through the communicator but he’d said, “Mr. Waverly cautions us not to underestimate her.”

It was a vague warning, but Napoleon knew better than to ignore advice from Mr. Waverly.

Now, in the car, Illya took another swig of his coffee and said, “It’s vital that we get the files from her as soon as we can. The way to her heart, Waverly says, is through her cats. Treat the cats like - " Illya waved his hand vaguely. "- I don't know, royalty, I suppose. And more importantly, we must accept her hospitality. We are to stay on her good side, or it’ll make things much more difficult.”

“Doesn’t sound too hard,” Napoleon remarked, rounding a corner. He held out his hand. Illya handed him his coffee again.

***

Coffee was good. Napoleon would be among the first to agree if questioned on that score. Coffee was very good. He drank it for breakfast, again when he got to work, when he got home, before long journeys, during long journeys, after long journeys, and whenever it was offered to him. He could almost give Illya a run for his money in the coffee-drinking department.

Tea was another matter. He always dreaded the moment when he would be invited to drink tea by some well-meaning person or other.

Now was one of those moments. Mrs. Belshaw was elderly, British and cat-obsessed: already a bad sign, an omen of almost inevitable tea-drinking to come. There was a cat on Illya’s lap, a cat on Mrs. Belshaw’s lap, and a cat wrapped around Napoleon’s feet like a fluffy pair of slippers. It made movement difficult, and meant that he was pinned in position like a slightly flustered butterfly pinned to a card. Another cat was snoozing to his left on the sofa, and two more were stalking around in the corner of the room. Yet another was stretched out on the back of the sofa behind Napoleon’s head.

It wasn’t looking promising. He could smile and stroke the cats, even allow his feet to be pinned to the floor and keep them absolutely still to avoid disturbing one of Mrs. Belshaw’s ‘babies’. That was all fine. But –

“You’ll both have some tea of course?” Mrs. Belshaw inquired of the two cat-laden agents, as she stood stiffly from the old velvet armchair opposite them.  

\- and there it was. Napoleon had been quietly formulating the politest possible way to decline the inevitable offer and was about to put it to use when to his horror he heard Illya say from the chair adjacent to him, “We’d love some, thank you.”

“Oh good,” Mrs. Belshaw beamed, and shuffled away down the hall, presumably to brew the offensive beverage.

Napoleon turned to Illya with a look of betrayal. Illya looked genuinely nonplussed.

“What’s the matter?”

“ _Tea_ , Illya.”

“Tea?”

“I _hate_ tea.”

Illya smirked and said, “That’s important information which should be in your file so you don’t get invited on cushy assignments like this one. I should think a slight aversion to tea would be the least problematic aspect to a mission.”

Napoleon only looked the more horrified. “I would rather endure a _thousand_ THRUSH tortures than drink something which is an offense to everything – ” He was cut short in his vilification of tea by the reappearance of the curly grey head in the doorway.

“How will you take it, dears? I’ve got a couple of different kinds…”

Illya rose. “Here, let me help…” He passed Napoleon a brief, unreadable glance as he left the room ahead of Mrs. Belshaw. Napoleon was unsure whether he was being mocked or commiserated.

Illya left and Mrs. Belshaw leaned back around the doorframe to remark girlishly to Napoleon, “Ooh he’s good, this one, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Napoleon agreed, managing to ungrit his teeth enough to smile pleasantly at her as she winked and disappeared back to the kitchen.

Napoleon sat back on the sofa and then jerked forward again as the cat behind his head hissed and leapt from the back. The other one on his feet yawned and stretched out a paw and he silently begged it to move and allow him to shift the position of his feet, but it only tucked the paw back in and wrapped itself more tightly around him. He inwardly steeled himself. It wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ be as bad as he remembered.

A moment or so later, Illya reappeared in the doorway. He smiled at Napoleon as he sat down.

“Well?” Napoleon asked desperately. “Did you, ah, excuse me? Say I’m allergic or something?”

Illya’s eyebrows went up innocently. “And ignore a direct order from Mr. Waverly?” The sly smile was back. “You must be mad.”

Napoleon was spared the onus of a reply when a tray full of crockery and biscuits preceded Mrs. Belshaw into the room. He tried to leap to his feet to help her and unfortunately in the process dislodged the cat that he’d forgotten was using him as a bed. It mewed pitifully and scuttled away, and Mrs. Belshaw’s smile dropped momentarily and for the split second in which it happened the atmosphere of the room altered. Napoleon saw suddenly why Waverly had made his instructions so explicit. The way to get to her heart really was through her cats, and they needed something from her. Humouring her was the best way. They could hardly force the hand of an old lady in her own home, for her own possessions.

The hospitality thing was probably just as specific and important, maybe more so. Illya was glaring at him. In an attempt to rectify the damage done he took the tray and set it down gently on the coffee table in the centre of the room, before locating the cat he’d unsettled and reaching out to it in a show of remorse and grief.

_Forgive me come on you little –_

The cat, to Napoleon’s immense relief, after a moment of turning away to lick itself with offended dignity, stood again and began rubbing its head against his knee. He scooped it up and said with a laugh, “I think I’ve been forgiven.”

“Oh lovely, dear,” Mrs. Belshaw said, beaming smiles once more.

This crisis averted, attention was turned back to the floral patterned teapot which occupied pride of place in the centre of the tray. Tea fell into three cups – a tiny part of Napoleon had hoped perhaps she would forget to pour his, but no such luck.

It was working, however, he realised as he managed a third sip of slightly leaf-tinted water laced with milk. The drink was both too thick with milk and too thin in its original components. It made his throat want to close up. But Mrs. Belshaw was beaming and responsive and at a slight prompting, said brightly, “Oh yes, I know the files you mean. I’ll get them now.”

She shot them another wink as she got to her feet and they heard her shuffling footsteps and disappearing voice up the stairs. “Won’t take me a second! I know where they are, and everything! _Completely_ forgotten all about them…”

As soon as she was out of earshot, Napoleon turned to his partner. “I can’t do it, Illya.”

“Can’t do what?” Illya’s eyes lighted on the teacup. “Oh. Would you like to pour it into the pot of an unsuspecting plant while our distinguished hostess is out of the room?” His tone was sardonic.

Napoleon had already cast his eye about for just such a suitable vessel but no good. “The only flowers in this room are dried."

The sound of Mrs. Belshaw’s footsteps was to be heard at the top of the stairs. “Give it to me,” Illya said, handing Napoleon his empty teacup in return for Napoleon’s full one.

Napoleon reflexively made a face, watching in awe and not a little bit of fear as Illya downed the milky leaf-water in one long gulp, setting the cup back into its saucer genteelly just as Mrs. Belshaw reappeared with a couple of slim, faded green files with one of UNCLE’s earliest logos printed on the front. Napoleon tore his eyes from Illya’s face and accepted the proffered file.

He opened it delicately and thumbed through the yellowed pages. It was all here, all the old records for the agents Mr. Waverly had named. There was something strange about reading about these agents who had probably died long ago, but whose names and details were once again relevant to the UNCLE archives. He wondered how Mrs. Belshaw had acquired the files, whether she had once, long ago, been an agent herself.

He glanced up at her and suddenly saw her with new understanding. She was smiling back at him knowingly.

“Would you like another cup of tea, dear?”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I love tea. 
> 
> In order to 'research' for this (i.e. how anyone could Not like tea) I spoke to friends and family and their general complaint was that it was too thin and bland. To me this seems to fit with what we know about Napoleon and his Excessive Condiment Use (The See-Paris-and-Die Affair) - I think he generally prefers something stronger and with more of a distinct taste. 
> 
> This isn't necessarily canon-compliant (in The Arabian Affair for instance Napoleon specifically asks for tea) but it's such a tiny portion of canon (whether one character likes tea or not is hardly the be-all and end-all).
> 
> This might turn out to be the first of a series, as I have a couple of other caffeine-related headcanons for the boys that I'd like to write fic about.
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
